What Has She Got Against Easter? And Other Thoughts on Spring Break

Last year, we had a very interesting Easter. This year, we're stretching the fun out over the entire week, it seems. Our washing machine broke on Friday, sending us into the weekend with no way to wash clothes or towels or peed upon sheets or socks. (Side note: Socks, I think, will be my final undoing. I hate socks. Socks hate me. We are locked in mutually assured destruction.)

Not only did the machine break, but it spread water all over our garage as well. I do thank my friend Tina for pointing out that there is reason to be thankful that our laundry room is not in our house. On the other hand, I want to smack Tina and all her silver lining brethren, as I look at the boxes of books we have strewn about our garage, which are now soggy and soft.

So the good news about the washer is that we have a friend who is a handyman, and he fixed the thing relatively easily and for very little money. So that's done.

But I should know by now, having been through a few of these things called Family Holidays, that the fun was not going to end there. Lola, apparently, has decided to mark the Resurrection of Jesus with an annual visit to the Emergency Room. This year, she was one day late, but we still managed to spend 3 hours at Children's Hospital, waiting to see if she had, in fact, broken her finger. The verdict: she has a very tiny "chip fracture" in her left hand ring finger, at the joint between her phalange and her metacarpal. A weird place to break a finger.

So we did the ER thing, and it was a fairly mellow experience. Upon coming home at 11:30, I was feeling rather proud of myself. We got our washing machine fixed and handled our first broken bone, and we're doing just fine! Everyone ate dinner, the washing machine and dryer were whirring away in the garage, doing their thing, and all was right with the world.

Please, someone, clonk me on the head when I think we've got everything under control, please.

Today dawned bright and beautiful. Today is closing on a barfing three year old with a fever of +103 and goo-infested eyes, one sinus-clobbered husband, a girls' room that sounds like a TB ward, more loads of dirty laundry than I started with and a wii-obsessed tween. (And thanks for nothing, those of you who assured me that the wii-obsession would wane, who breezily gave me false hope that I wouldn't have one of of those kids, the kind that can't put down the almighty wii remote, the kind whose eyeballs turn into TV rectangles, the kind who forsakes food, family, nature, literature, and daylight for the virtual crack that is the infernal wii. Cuz you lied to me.)

Today sucked just a little bit.

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I am seriously starting to fear the teenage years (recent FB posts notwithstanding). My tween is becoming a monster right before my eyes, and I can't even blog about most of it because he'll say to me, with his eye rolling backwards and his posture slumping in disgust: "You're not gonna put this on your blog, are you? Don't put me on your blog!" So I'll have to think of creative ways to tell his stories and seek some feedback from others.

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I have a friend whose 11-year old son is evil. He is sucking the air out of the family home. He is making it difficult for his mother to remember what a fantastic, beautiful kid he is. What should I tell her?

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My three year old is a handful. I've been known to speculate that had she been the first, there would have been no more, so abhorrent is some of her behavior. She's a force of nature, and I find myself mentally trying to prepare myself for extended periods of time in her presence, trying to fill my arsenal with tactics to control her and to help her siblings deal with her shenanigans, trying to anticipate and head off difficult situations. But tonight, as she lay in a fever-induced lump in my lap with her swollen eyes crusting over and her fever heating the house better than our 65 year old furnace, I realized that I prefer her nice and fiesty, thank you very much. Seeing her with no pep was unsettling to say the least.

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I drove the kids on an errand this afternoon (before I realized that I was carting Typhoon Mary around). We drove through some nearby hills, and shouted MOO at the cows like we always do, and Vincenzo said "Hey Lola, you like steak so much, there's some steak!" I said "Yeah Lola, here's a fork, there's your dinner!"

Lola: "HAND ME A GUN, MOM!"

She seems so mild-mannered and sweet. She's fooling everyone.

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This has been random, sleep-deprived thoughts from a woman who should never, ever underestimate just how off-kilter life can get. And one who cannot get the smell of barf out of her nostrils.

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